Pulp Fiction Page #20

CAPT. KOONS

Hello, little man. Boy I sure heard

a bunch about you. See, I was a good

friend of your Daddy's. We were in

that Hanoi pit of hell over five

years together. Hopefully, you'll

never have to experience this

yourself, but when two men are in a

situation like me and your Daddy

were, for as long as we were, you

take on certain responsibilities of

the other. If it had been me who had

not made it, Major Coolidge would be

talkin' right now to my son Jim. But

the way it worked out is I'm talkin'

to you, Butch. I got somethin' for

ya.

The Captain pulls a gold wrist watch out of his pocket.

CAPT. KOONS

This watch I got here was first

purchased by your great-granddaddy.

It was bought during the First World

War in a little general store in

Knoxville, Tennessee. It was bought

by private Doughboy Ernie Coolidge

the day he set sail for Paris. It

was your great-granddaddy's war watch,

made by the first company to ever

make wrist watches. You see, up until

then, people just carried pocket

watches. Your great-granddaddy wore

that watch every day he was in the

war. Then when he had done his duty,

he went home to your great-

grandmother, took the watch off his

wrist and put it in an ol' coffee

can. And in that can it stayed 'til

your grandfather Dane Coolidge was

called upon by his country to go

overseas and fight the Germans once

again. This time they called it World

War Two. Your great-granddaddy gave

it to your granddad for good luck.

Unfortunately, Dane's luck wasn't as

good as his old man's. Your granddad

was a Marine and he was killed with

all the other Marines at the battle

of Wake Island. Your granddad was

facing death and he knew it. None of

those boys had any illusions about

ever leavin' that island alive. So

three days before the Japanese took

the island, your 22-year old

grandfather asked a gunner on an Air

Force transport named Winocki, a man

he had never met before in his life,

to deliver to his infant son, who he

had never seen in the flesh, his

gold watch. Three days later, your

grandfather was dead. But Winocki

kept his word. After the war was

over, he paid a visit to your

grandmother, delivering to your infant

father, his Dad's gold watch. This

watch. This watch was on your Daddy's

wrist when he was shot down over

Hanoi. He was captured and put in a

Vietnamese prison camp. Now he knew

if the gooks ever saw the watch it'd

be confiscated. The way your Daddy

looked at it, that watch was your

birthright. And he'd be damned if

and slopeheads were gonna put their

greasy yella hands on his boy's

birthright. So he hid it in the one

place he knew he could hide somethin'.

His ass. Five long years, he wore

this watch up his ass. Then when he

died of dysentery, he gave me the

watch. I hid with uncomfortable hunk

of metal up my ass for two years.

Then, after seven years, I was sent

home to my family. And now, little

man, I give the watch to you.

Capt. Koons hands the watch to Butch. A little hand comes

into FRAME to accept it.

CUT TO:

INT. LOCKER ROOM – NIGHT

The 27-year old Butch Coolidge is dressed in boxing regalia:

trunks, shoes and gloves. He lies on a table catching a few

zzzzzz's before his big fight. Almost as soon as WE CUT to

him, he wakes up with a start. Shaken by the bizarre memory,

he wipes his sweaty face with his boxing glove.

His trainer KLONDIKE, an older fireplug, opens the door a

little, sticking his head in the room. Pandemonium seems to

be breaking out behind Klondike in the hallway.

KLONDIKE:

It's time, Butch.

BUTCH:

I'm ready.

Klondike steps inside, closing the door on the WILD MOB

outside.

He goes to the long yellow robe hanging on a hook. Butch

hops off the table and, without a word, Klondike helps him

on with the robe, which says on the back: "BATTLING BUTCH

COOLIDGE".

The two men head for the door. Klondike opens the door for

Butch.

As Butch steps into the hallway, the Crowd goes apeshit.

Klondike closes the door behind him, leaving us in the quiet,

empty locker room.

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